


Quintessence Burns in His Soul

by CuivienenGazer



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, BAMF Lance (Voltron), Blue Paladin Lance (Voltron), Caretaker Lance, Cuban Lance (Voltron), Especially Keith, Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Haggar is the worst, Hurt Keith (Voltron), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Keith (Voltron) Needs a Hug, Keith (Voltron) is a Mess, Lance (Voltron) Speaks Spanish, Lance is the best, Lance just gets people, Little bit of Stockholm Syndrome, Past Torture, Pidge is a foul-mouthed little shit, Quintessence, Recovery, Red needs her paladin, Shiro is not amused, Space Dad Shiro (Voltron), Team as Family, Torture, VLD au, also plot because I like the shock value, and setbacks, comes into play, paladins & their lions, really Keith just needs a lot of hugs, recovery from emotional/psychological abuse, there is healing, these are in no order I'm just vomiting tags, this is a recovery fic, where Keith was raised as an experiment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2019-05-17 04:38:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14825400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CuivienenGazer/pseuds/CuivienenGazer
Summary: K38-701 knew what he was. He was Haggar's; he was her test subject, he was her experiment. His world was defined by her rules, his boundaries set by her whims. How is he supposed to understand anything when he's taken away by the stranger in white and blue?Or: Keith was raised as an experiment in one of Haggar's labs. While looking for Matt, Lance and Pidge stumble across an imprisoned human and Lance adopts him. But Haggar will go to great lengths to get her experiment back, especially once he starts exhibiting the traits she has been looking for all along.





	1. Chapter One

It’s too soon, too soon when the door bangs open, jerking K38-701 from his fitful attempt at rest, and he keeps his eyes screwed shut, cowering further into his corner, scrubbing his face into the ground. It’s not time, it’s too soon, it’s different, it’s bad. He wishes his arms were free so he could hide his head better, but he was bad last time and failed Haggar’s test, so she left his hands cuffed tight behind him, left the electricity to buzz and burn through his nerve endings and now he can’t even feel his arms, knows only that they are still attached because something is between his side and the floor.

This is probably the rest of his punishment coming now. He didn’t mean to, he didn’t mean to break it, he’s sorry, it just hurt so much. Maybe if he can show the druids how sorry he is they’ll see, they’ll see he can be good. To prove it, he shoves the whimper that wants to come out back down into his chest, where it squeezes against his heart and lungs but that’s ok, it’s better than showing how cowardly he is, and then he opens his eyes, stilling his scrabbles to show the druids that he’ll come quietly, he’ll be good, even if they’re here to punish him.

It’s not druids, and just like that his fear is clawing its way back up his throat to come spilling out of his mouth, because it’s not druids, it’s not druids and it’s not guards, and even through the tests are painful the guards are so much worse, and the two beings that have just opened the door are neither, they are new and different and this will be worse even than the guards. They are standing in the doorway, all white and blue and green, one tall and one short, helmets on and weapons in their hands and their mouths open under their clear half-visors in matching expressions that he doesn’t know, he hasn’t seen before, and it’s more new, more different, and he’s sure it will be very bad. It’s too soon for this, he’s not ready. He’s still hurting from the test, he can’t feel his arms, and underneath that he’s still hurting from before, when the guards last visited, and he doesn’t think he can take whatever’s coming next.

They come closer, advancing further into the cell, and they’re speaking but he can’t understand, it’s just gibberish, and despite himself he’s pushing back into his little corner even though it’s hopeless. He knows how stupid he is to move away, to show fear or resistance, he knows, but he does it anyway because he’s too much of a coward not to. They keep coming, keep spouting their strange words at him, they just keep coming and even though the short one puts its weapon away, the other doesn’t, and they’re both hard and strong and their hands are free to reach for him, to grab and hit and strike and stab – he can’t, he can’t take it, and he kicks out at the closest one and knocks it back onto it’s ass, and _now_ he’s done it, _now_ they’ll be mad and he was bad, so bad to kick. The one he kicked yells, in pain or in anger, he can’t tell, and now there’ll be no mercy for him, why couldn’t he just be _good_?

The other one helps the short one up to its feet, and they keep making noises at him and at each other, hurling their strange words out like quick darts of intent and none of it makes sense, why haven’t they hit him yet? They switch, the one he kicked going to the door and drawing its weapon to glare out at the hallway, and the tall one puts his gun away to crouch in front of him, hands open and empty and a string of meaningless sounds dripping from it’s mouth, and if he wasn’t so scared he’d be annoyed – really, is it necessary to make that much noise _all the time?_

He’s so caught up in the babble that he loses track of the hands – _stupid, stupid_ – and suddenly they’re touching him, gripping his shoulders, and he fights and squirms and even screams, but it’s no use, he can’t shake the arms that encircle him, lifting him up until he’s slung over a hard white-and-blue shoulder and they’re leaving his cell and everything is terrible and new and he’s so scared that his breath comes quicker and faster until he passes out.

* * *

 

He wakes up when the shooting starts. The blue-and-white one shoots from under him, shots sure and unerring even with K38-701’s weight draped across him. The short one, the one he kicked, darts in and out and up and around, it’s green weapon sometimes a blade and sometimes a hook on a string which it uses to fly across the halls in a frightening display of deadly agility. They’re shooting guards and druids, they’re _taking_ him, _why_ are they taking him? This is bad, this is so bad, and he kicks feebly against the chest of the one holding him, trying to slide off of its shoulder. It doesn’t work, of course, and he gets a firm slap on his ass and a string of gibberish for his rebellion. But that’s it, for the moment – _what?_ – there’s no spike of pain from his cuffs being adjusted to punish him. They keep going, bursting into a hangar bay and it’s been wrecked, dozens of ships reduced to heaps of scrap metal, and in the midst of the destruction a massive blue lion-ship sits awaiting them, and if he didn’t know better he’d swear the ship was projecting an air of _smugness_ as it sits in the midst of the destruction it has wrought. It moves as they approach, lowering its’ gigantic head and opening its’ mouth and Haggar save him, they’re walking into the mouth of the lion and he’s going to die.

He gets set down once they’re in the cockpit. The blue-and-white one slides into the pilot seat, but K38-701 doesn’t move because the green-and-white one stands over him with its weapon out and now that he’s seen it in action he has no desire to give them any reason to use it on him. Besides, they’re taking off, and he knows that he can’t survive outside the ship. Haggar would understand, wouldn’t she, that he really couldn’t have prevented this. This isn’t his fault. Is it? He can’t figure it out, and it’s hard to think because the journey has jostled his cuffs up to the next setting and the electricity is sending minute trembles through his frame and really he knows he was bad, how long does he need to be reminded? He can’t stop the whine that tears itself from his throat, and he rolls onto his side as best he can, offering his cuffs to the green-and-white one in a silent plea for mercy, he _knows_ he was bad, he’ll be good, please just turn them off. He won’t try to escape, he’ll be still, he’ll be good, _please_.

The green-and-white one crouches over him, examining the cuffs, and then there’s a sudden stream of rapid-fire babble above and around him, and its’ hands are on the cuffs, but it must still be mad at him because the voltage jolts higher suddenly and he screams, he’s _SORRY_! The hands seize up, yanking and tugging at the cuffs, and abruptly everything stops. The cuffs deactivate, releasing his hands, and his arms sag limply with the rest of him as he accustoms himself to the absence of volts coursing through his body. His arms are free, he thinks, but he’s not sure. He can’t move them, can’t move anything really. They’re still flying, he realizes dimly, the aliens who abducted him conversing softly above him, and he doesn’t want to black out again but he can’t fight it for long as grey covers his vision and he slips away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance's view of the rescue. Little bit of exposition, but gah, unavoidable. The plot, she doth thiccen.

“Pidge,” Lance starts softly. He doesn’t want to be the one to say it, but someone has to. “Pidge, I don’t think-”

“We’ve got two cells left,” Pidge cuts over him harshly. She knows, too. Lance sighs and glances back up the hall. They are clear, for now. The next door hisses open, revealing another empty cell, dusty and abandoned. No Matt Holt, no Sam Holt. This had been their best lead in movements, but it’s looking like another dead end.

One more cell. Pidge crouches before the door, her string of unlocking code refined to mere seconds by now. The door hisses open, and Lance glances in, prepared for disappointment.

“Oh my god,” Pidge breathes.

In the far corner of the cell, something thin and filthy and broken scrabbles against the floor, skeletal arms cuffed behind its back and ratty black hair covering its face. It’s humanoid, naked, and – Lance casts his eyes anywhere else – male. What little skin isn’t purple or black with bruising and bodily fluids and lacerations in various stages of age is shockingly pale. Lance can see every rib, every bone. The hair, long and dreadlocked by filth, is covering his face as he presses further into the corner of the cell. Slowly, he stills, and the whimper dies.

“Oh my god,” Pidge repeats. She casts stricken eyes to Lance, and he knows what she’s thinking. He’s nodding even before she gets the words out, but she continues anyway. “We’ve got to get him out of here.”

“Go, I’ll cover you,” he says, glancing up the hall. They’re still clear.

Pidge walks into the cell, deactivating her bayard. “Hey,” she says. “It’s ok, we’re here to rescue you. It’s ok, you’re safe now.” She advances on the shrinking form in the corner, crouching down to reach for him. He freezes, and something warns Lance, but not in time, and a bony foot lashes out to catch Pidge’s midriff, sending her tumbling onto her ass with an explosive outrush of air.

“Fuck!” she wheezes, activating her bayard. “The fucker _kicked_ me!”

“He’s traumatized, he doesn’t know what’s going on,” Lance says helpfully, crossing the floor to help Pidge up. “Here, you cover us. I’ll handle him. I can carry him, anyway, and he doesn’t look like he’s ready to do much walking.”

Pidge rubs her midriff ruefully, but rises and goes to the door. Lance deactivates his bayard and clips it to his thigh before crouching near the prisoner, out of reach of any more panicked kicks.

“Hey there, buddy,” he rambles. “ _Est_ _á bien_. Been a long time since you’ve seen another human, I bet. I’m a nice change from purple fur, I know. Pidge too, even though you kicked her. She won’t hold it against you, I swear. I know you’re just scared, and I know none of this makes sense, but we just want to help you. _Est_ _á bien_. We’re here to rescue you.”

He keeps going, and the prisoner doesn’t move, but Lance catches a flash of grey-violet eyes through the matted black locks. He inches forwards, keeping up his soothing babble, until his hands are on the prisoner’s shoulders. Immediately, the bony form tenses, and Lance scoops him up quickly before he can lash out again. The male is slung over his shoulders before he can do more than cry out in guttural surprise, and Lance makes a beeline for the exit.

“Time to go,” he clips out. “Cover us, Pidge.”

The prisoner is hyperventilating against Lance’s back, but after a minute Lance thinks he might have passed out, because he stops twitching. They trot through the halls, _gracias a Dios_ avoiding sentries for most of the winding journey. They’re all on the other side of the ship, distracted by Hunk and Shiro and the Castleship.

Of course, there are guards manning the hangar, and Lance pulls out his bayard in the nick of time. He and Pidge take them out, but the prisoner wakes and struggles weakly against Lance’s grip, nearly slipping off his shoulders. Lance slaps the closest part of him – his ass, whoops _lo siento_ – in reprobation. “Hold still, man, or you’ll fall! Relax, we’re almost out of here.”

The hangar doors open, revealing Blue awaiting them smugly. She purrs as Lance takes in the havoc she’s wrought, and he can’t help but purr back as he casts his gratitude across their bond. “Blue, you’re the only woman for me.”

“Gross, get a room,” Pidge mutters, but she doesn’t hesitate to dart up the ramp into Blue’s cockpit.

Lance follows, sliding the prisoner to the floor so he can fly. Pidge stands near him, keeping an eye on the shuddering form. They careen out of the hangar and into a space battle, Galra fighters against Hunk’s lion and Shiro’s pod fighter and the Castle’s laser beams, and Lance activates his comms and Blue’s tail cannon simultaneously. “Guys, we’re out, take out the ship! Inbound, with one rescue.”

“Thank god, are you guys ok?” Hunk babbles, activating Yellow’s jaw blade to score a slash across the Galra battleship. “Wait, rescue, really? Did you find Matt? Or Pidge’s dad?”

“No, someone else,” Lance says, casting a quick glance back at the ravaged body behind him. “He’s human, I think, but he’s had it pretty rough. He’ll need a cryopod asap.”

“I thought there were only three survivors, who else did the Galra take?” Shiro asks, and Lance can hear the worry and guilt over the comms.

Behind him, Pidge is already shaking her head. “Shiro, I don’t think this is one of the Kerberos team,” she says. “I memorized everything about that mission, and this guy doesn’t fit the description of any of them, even accounting for his current state. This is someone else.”

“How did another human get out here?” Hunk wonders. Behind him, the Galra battleship explodes in a rosy glow of fire and smoke, and Lance would think it was pretty if he could forget about the death toll their actions have caused. He swallows a dry heave and glances back at the prisoner. He’s shaking.

“Is it me, or are his tremors getting worse? Pidge, can you check him out?”

She does. “Oh god, Lance. He’s – _fuck_ , the cuffs are electrifying him!”

“Get them off!” Lance shrieks, barely remembering to keep his hands on the controls. They’re entering the hangar. Behind him, Pidge is working over the cuffs, and suddenly the prisoner jerks and _screams_ , pure agony ripping out of his throat in counterpoint to his frantic thrashing.

“Shit!” Pidge shrieks, fingers scrabbling across the cuffs, and abruptly everything stops. The prisoner sags, panting harshly, and Pidge throws the cuffs across the cockpit. She sinks to a seat beside him, and Lance lands with a jolt – _sorry, Blue_ – so he can twist out of the pilot seat. The poor guy has passed out again, but it’s probably a mercy. Now they can get him into a cryopod with minimal fuss. He scoops the guy up in his arms and descends to the hangar deck. Hunk and Shiro are waiting for them, and Lance feels the distinctive _shift-stretch_ of wormhole travel as he steps out of Blue’s mouth. Good. They’re safe from any stray Galra, for the moment.

Shiro steps in as Lance crosses the hangar, brushing ratty black dreads out of the way to survey a pale face, chisel-sharp skull protruding from hollow cheeks dusted by thick black lashes. He relaxes minutely, even as his brow crinkles in fresh worry, and Lance can appreciate what he’s probably feeling; relief that it’s not another member of the Kerberos mission after all, but then guilt over his relief, and worry about this fresh evidence of Galra visitation on Earth – really it’s a whirlwind, no wonder the guy looks trashed.

Allura and Coran join them in the cryopod room, and Coran busies himself at the controls while Lance and Shiro set the prisoner’s shoulder and do their best to shift his ribs back into place before wrestling a medsuit onto their new guest and propping him gingerly upright in the pod. The glass doors whoosh closed, and Coran mumbles and hums over the readout as the pod analyzes its subject.

“He should be out in a bit under two quintants,” the Altean says after a few moments. “The pod will take care of the surface issues – get rid of those lacerations and bruises, heal the broken bones.”

“Can you tell if those cuffs did any lasting damage?” Pidge asks, and Lance notices that she’s brought them along, alternating between studying them and the still form of their most recent victim.

Coran tips his head back and forth, the Altean equivalent of a rueful shrug. “It’s possible, Number Four. Nerve damage is trickier than trying to transport heximite in an Altean rockstorm. The pod will do what it can, but we may just have to wait and see, as you humans say.”

Silence blankets the medbay thickly as they all stare at the emaciated form behind the ice-frosted glass.

“I don’t suppose any of you recognize him,” Coran ventures.

“Nah,” Lance shakes his head. “Hunk, Pidge? Shiro?”

“I mean, it’s hard to say what the guy might look like if he was, you know, healthy and cleaned up and stuff,” Hunk rambles. “But no.”

Pidge and Shiro just shake their heads, and Pidge goes back to fiddling with the cuffs, glaring down at the devices as if she can intimidate them into revealing the answers she seeks. Shiro’s eyes stay on the pod, but his gaze is distant, and Lance thinks he’s probably caught up in memories of another time, another place. Before he can think of a remark to jolt Shiro back to the present, though, Allura clears her throat.

“Paladins, as invested as I’m sure you all are in this human’s wellbeing, we really must resume the search for the Holts. The sooner we find a paladin for the Red Lion, the sooner you will be able to form Voltron and take on Zarkon on a more meaningful level.”

“Excuse me, isn’t that what we _just_ finished doing?” Lance yelps. “We just liberated a whole prison base! And without the Red or Black lions, I might add.” And yeah, he knows that Matt or Sam Holt stand the best chance of being a part of the ‘matched set’ of quintessences or paladins or whatever that Allura’s always going on about, but they’re also Pidge’s _family_. They’d be searching for them anyway, right?

“Lance, you did great, buddy, but-” Shiro’s helpful attempt at soothing Lance’s bruised ego is trampled by Allura’s retort.

“Yes, an entire prison base _with one prisoner_ inside. Either the base was all but abandoned, or we have just stumbled upon something highly important to Zarkon. If the former, we need the rest of the lions operable so that we can move on to more valuable targets, and if the latter, we need Voltron to fend off the retaliation undoubtedly coming once Zarkon learns what we have taken.”

“What we took- you mean this guy?” Pidge realizes. “You think he was experimented on, like Shiro?”

Lance winces right along with Shiro. Nice tact, _Katie_.

Allura merely folds her hands, the picture of royal poise. “Perhaps. But as I was saying, the issue of this human’s purpose to the Galra Empire cannot be addressed until his awakening, whereas our search for the Holts can.”

Shiro nods, visibly putting his memories of his time in Galra hands aside. “Allura’s right, guys. We can’t all stand around here for two quintants. Get cleaned up, get some rest and some food, and we’ll meet on the bridge in three vargas. You all did great today; we’re really starting to work well together.”

Lance preens under the praise, until his stomach reminds him with an unholy gargle that it’s been vargas since breakfast.

“Right!” he says, clapping his hands loudly and draping himself across Hunk. “Hunk, buddy, _tengo hambre_. Tell me you have something better than food goo for us.”

“Oh, um, yeah,” Hunk’s eyes light up. “Yeah, the Arusians had something a lot like eggs, and butter, and a veggie of some sort a lot like green onions, so I’m thinking omelettes, and I found space-flour and space-sugar in the castle’s stores, so I’m going to try for cookies next,”

“Space cookies!” Lance whoops, herding Hunk towards the kitchen and hoping the rest will follow. “Hunk, you’re my only boo, don’t let anyone tell you any different, you god among men.” He carries on down the hall, pleased to see that Pidge is leading the pack after them, with Shiro and Allura not far behind, and finally Coran turning away from the pod after one last adjustment. They’ll eat, and relax, and tackle the problems of finding the remaining paladins and handling their guest’s awakening as they come.

* * *

The Galra assigned to Haggar’s security detail know it is best to remain silent whenever possible. This holds especially true when, seldom but inevitably, events do not transpire as she wishes. So when Haggar decides to visit one of her more isolated research stations, only to find a decimated wreckage in its place, they remain silent and watchful. And when she stalks through the blaster-blackened halls, kicking aside the warped remnants of sentries and decomposing remains of her druids alike, they hang back a few more paces by unspoken agreement. And when she comes upon the cell which once housed her subject, only to find it void as the rest of the base, they flee in silent terror of her wrath.

It is not enough, of course. Later, when Haggar leaves, she does so alone, piloting her ship herself in seething silence as she plots the recovery of what is rightfully hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2, yay! Any mistakes are mine, especially in the Spanish - I don't speak it, and I'm using Google translate, so if something is off or just flat-out wrong, please let me know so I can fix it!  
> Y'all are amazing for coming on this journey with me. I'm so energized by the response this little fic has gotten!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So..... season 6 happened and I am S H O O K  
> And that is why this chapter is late. Partially. The other reason being that it dragged me kicking and screaming for about 2k more words than I had originally planned. So, uh. Enjoy?  
> Chapter warnings: uh..... angst, more angst, tad bit of language, heavily unreliable narration, nausea, implied rape, and (erroneous) assumption of intended rape.

He’s cold, _so_ cold. Everything is too bright, and he’s standing but he can’t keep that up for long, he’s too weak – he stumbles forward, falling out of some sort of glass enclosure into a bright room all in blue and white. Before he can hit the floor, though, there are arms around him and he freezes up as memory comes crashing back – the white-and-blue-and-green aliens who abducted him, the lion-ship, _shooting_ the druids, taking the cuffs off of him, it’s all jumbled but he thinks he fought one of them, are they going to punish him now – it’s too much, too much, and he writhes out of the grip, flees the nonsensical babble only to collapse as his legs give out underneath him but at least his arms are sort of working now and he catches himself before his head can smack on the floor. He’s weak, weaker than he was before he last blacked out, hollow and empty in a way that tells him he’s approaching the limit on how long he can go without some form of food or drink, but beyond that, if he focuses past the all-encompassing hunger, he feels… better? Less raw, certainly – he’s not bleeding, his shoulder and his ribs aren’t stabbing into his insides anymore – they’re actually… _not hurting_? His arms still shiver and tingle with phantom surges of electricity, and suddenly he can’t even hold himself up anymore but his head was already close enough to the floor that this time when it smacks onto the cold metal it doesn’t even bruise.

The hands are back, waving in his field of vision, and they’re open, empty, it almost looks like they’re offering to help him up – _what?_ Nothing makes sense. He follows the hands with his eyes, up the arms to a face, and it’s the same blue-and-white one who took him, only he’s not wearing his armor any more, and his eyes crinkle at the corners as he keeps talking and he doesn’t even sound angry even though K38-701 fought him not once but _twice_. Cautiously, in case it’s a trap or a trick, he shifts to sitting – not closer, in case the blue-and-white one changes his mind and decides to punish him – and watches the way the mouth moves, the way the eyes stay right on him, and this time he _definitely_ keeps an eye on those hands because he knows how strong they are, how quick. They dart around the air as his captor speaks, but they don’t come closer, and after a minute he sits down too. K38-701 relaxes minutely; it’s harder to grab or kick from a seated position, and he thinks he’ll have enough warning to flee if the blue-and-white one decides to stop whatever this is and start hurting him.

He’s holding something, now, offering a small black device to him, and this is bad, so bad, he doesn’t want it, and he shakes his head, scooting away and maybe if he just stays on the floor he won’t be punished for saying no, he’s not ready for more tests yet, it’s too soon, too soon. The blue-and-white one (only he’s not blue-and-white anymore, he’s wearing blue and brown and his eyes are blue and his hair is brown so maybe he’s the blue-and-brown one now, this is so confusing) keeps offering the device to him, but with his other hand he’s fishing another one out of his own pocket, waggling it back and forth and attaching it to his face and neck and he just keeps talking the whole time, but he doesn’t sound like he’s in pain so maybe this is one of the tests that actually don’t hurt. They’re rare, but they do happen sometimes. He keeps offering the device, and this time when he scooches forward K38-701 doesn’t move away even though it’s hard, it’s hard to _choose_ to stay still when he’s not being restrained and a test is coming. But he’s trying to be good, isn’t he, he’s trying to show how good he can be so maybe _maybe_ they’ll keep not hurting him, just for a little while longer. Just until he can get some food, just until he’s strong enough to take whatever they have planned.

The blue one doesn’t come too much closer, anyway, just close enough to lean forwards and put the device where he can reach it, and this is so strange. He’s not putting it on him, he’s not making him do _anything_ , he’s just waiting.

_Oh_. He gets it. This _is_ a test, but it’s one of those sneaky ones where they just want to see how long it takes him to figure things out, how long it takes for him to get that he’s supposed to obey on his own. Now it makes sense, and he snatches up the device, bracing himself for pain. He took too long, he’s stupid, he didn’t figure it out fast enough.

The device is quiescent in his hand, it doesn’t shock him or burn him or freeze him or poke him, it just sits in his hand.

“…should start working any minute now, they usually take a tick or two to adjust to a new set of brain waves or something, Pidge explained it but I wasn’t really listening because I hadn’t had lunch yet and I was _so_ hungry. It’s hard to focus when I’m hungry, you know? I bet you know all about that – oh, _Dios, soy est_ _úpido_ , ignore me – I bet you’re hungry right now, let’s go get you some food, ok? Hunk makes the best food ever, the things that man can do to food goo – it’s magic, I tell you-”

It’s too much, too much, _too much_ , and he drops the translator to clap his hands over his ears, cringing a little because he just failed a test _again_.

When he dares to look up, the blue one is closer, kneeling in front of him but he doesn’t look angry, he’s just _sitting_ there, holding the translator and miraculously silent. Catching K38-701’s eyes, he smiles and proffers the translator again, but he still doesn’t speak. K38-701 understands now. The blue one will talk when he knows he’ll be understood. He needs to stop being so stupid and take it, he can handle this, it doesn’t even hurt, yet. The translator sits atop the slim brown hand, open and waiting for him to take it, so he does, careful not to touch because the blue one is so clean and he’s so dirty, he’ll make him mad if he gets him dirty.

It works quicker, this time. Right away he can understand the blue one’s words, but this time they come slow and soft and it’s a little better.

“Hey. Sorry about that, I ramble sometimes. My name’s Lance. What’s yours?”

Here it is, a test. This one he knows, this one he can do right, he can show he’s being good. It’s a trick test but he knows it; he’s not supposed to make the talking noise, only listen and do, so he turns a little, grabbing his hair to show the mark he knows is on the nape of his neck, his designation.

“K38-701… was that your prison number? What about your real name?” The blue one – _Lance_ – sounds puzzled and this was supposed to be an easy test, how could he have gotten it wrong so quickly? He’s so stupid, so stupid for thinking that the tests are the same here, of course they’re different everything is different but the designation is all he has so he taps it, pulling his hair further out of the way in case it wasn’t clear the first time.

“Ok, that’s ok, I know it’s probably hard to remember. Shiro still doesn’t remember most of the year he was a prisoner either, and I’m guessing you’ve been with them longer. That’s ok, next question. Are you hungry?”

He twists back to face Lance only he knows not to look at the eyes so he looks at his knees instead. This test he knows too, he’s not supposed to eat yet it’s only been a few quintants and he’s been bad so he doesn’t deserve anything even though he thinks he might pass out again if they don’t give him something soon. He shakes his head quickly, ignoring the way the world spins around him.

“…Are you sure? I always get super hungry after coming out of the pods. Coran says it’s because they use nutrients from our bodies to speed the healing process so it’s a good idea to eat right away afterwards.”

Wait, now he’s _supposed_ to eat? But he hasn’t passed any tests yet! This is all so confusing, everything is upside down and twisted around and different and he doesn’t understand and he’s still so tired. Can’t he just sleep? He shakes his head again because he’s still sure this is a test and he wants to show he can still remember the right answers even when Haggar isn’t there to tell him.

“Lance, how much longer till the pod’s done, Hunk wants to have something warm read- oh. Never mind.” The green-and-white one skids to a stop, and she’s changed her clothes _too_ and he doesn’t think he can handle much more of this so he skitters up the shallow steps to put his back against the nearest wall so no one else can surprise him only he ends up sprawled on his ass because his legs are still not working right and maybe the right answer to the food test should have been yes.

“Hey Pidge,” Lance says, and he’s calm, he doesn’t sound mad that K38-701 moved without permission. “Question, Pidge, are you hungry? Feel like eating?”

The green one ( _Pidge?_ ) narrows her eyes at Lance. “We just ate, like, two vargas ago. What are you- oh. Yeah, super hungry. You?”

Lance nods enthusiastically, and he doesn’t look away from Pidge but K38-701 is pretty sure he’s supposed to hear this. _Why?_ Just in case they want him to remember later, he listens intently.

“Yeah, I’m so hungry. We should all go to the kitchens and see what Hunk was making, don’t you think?” His bright gaze whips around to pin on K38-701. “How about it, buddy, wanna come with us?”

They’re _still_ offering him food and maybe it’s wrong and maybe he should keep saying no but _maybe_ the right answer is yes and he wants it to be yes so badly that he nods, jerky and unsure, freezing for a tick in case that was wrong but they don’t immediately pounce on him for it.

“Yes!” Lance cheers. He shoots to his feet _fast_ , pumping a fist in the air, and K38-701 flinches before he can stop himself but Lance freezes, something twisting his face that K38-701 doesn’t recognize. “Sorry, buddy, my bad,” he says, and K38-701 doesn’t know what he means even with the translator still clutched in his fist but he nods anyway since nodding seems like what they want.

Lance approaches, but he does it slow enough that K38-701’s mostly able to keep from flinching, and again the long brown hand is hovering, empty, before him and he can’t figure out _why_.

“Come on, man, you need a hand? Let’s get you up and moving.”

It’s new and different and strange, but he’s not quite sure it’s bad. It hasn’t been bad yet, this new place, these new people, and of course it will be but maybe not just yet, so he takes the hand, wincing at the crusty dirt and dried blood that flakes off of him and onto Lance’s clean skin. And then he’s distracted from that by his legs’ sudden protests against holding him, sending him lurching to one side to crash down to the floor again only something catches him – Lance _again_ and now the Pidge is on his other side and between them they’re half-carrying him across the room and they’re so _fast_ he doesn’t even have time to shy away, not that he’d get anywhere if he tried. He’s clearly too weak to do anything, they’re just fixing him so he can actually perform whatever tests they have waiting for him. Things slot into place and he feels a little calmer, now. This makes sense, he’s figured it out and it’s not good but nothing ever is and he’ll just savor this time before the tests start so he can look back on it later and keep himself sane.

They’ve been walking while he drifted, lost in his thoughts, stupid, _stupid_ , and now they’re in another room and they put him down in a chair but no restraints spring out to pin his arms or his feet or his neck, he’s just loose, he could get up any time if he was sure his legs would take him (he’s not). There’s a table in front of him, but he’s not on it, and no one else is on it so what is it _for_? Lance and Pidge drop into seats next to him, chattering across him at each other and even though they’ve let him keep the translator what they say doesn’t make sense so he lets it wash over him, only keeping an ear out in case they address him directly. He’s tired. Somehow they healed him (partially, there are deeper pains which have been part of him for so long he can’t remember life without them), but he’s still _tired_.

“Hey guys, back already- oh hey, buddy! Good to see you up and out of the pod!” A large young man clad in yellow pokes his head out of a doorway K38-701 hadn’t noticed before. “Hang on a tick, I’ve got some space omelettes left-” he vanishes as quickly as he appeared, only to pop back in a moment later with a tray of something that smells like nothing K38-701 has ever encountered but he’s very _very_ interested in tasting. As if drawn by his fervent need, the platter approaches and is set down underneath his nose.

“Go on, dig in,” the yellow man says, and his face is so kind and open and the food smells so good that even though it’s probably poisoned or drugged or not nearly as good as it smells K38-701 can’t bring himself to care, and he grabs the closest food-thing and crams it into his mouth.

It’s so… _much_. Flavor explodes in his mouth, igniting his tongue, burning down his throat, and he gags, choking on the most wonderful thing he has ever experienced because it's too much, he can't handle it, he's not good enough for this food. He needs the horrible grey slime he's been eating all his life, that's all he's fit for, this fluffy green stuff is for those who are stronger, better, more than him. But because he's stubborn and greedy he forces it down, swallows the explosion and feels it land in his empty shriveled stomach which immediately sets up a clamor for more, more, _more_ , and he watches his hand dart out and snag another fluffy green thing and he should stop, he _knows_ better than to try to eat quickly after this long without food, he'll end up vomiting it all later if he's not careful but his hunger is overriding his common sense and his mouth hates the explosion of flavor again but he finishes his second and then his third before he can master himself enough to stop, look up and gage whether he's done anything wrong. Was this whole plate supposed to be for him? It's too much, surely. He was supposed to give some to the others, to Lance, to Pidge, to the yellow one who brought it out, so he pushes the platter across the table towards them, doesn't dare make eye contact for longer than a flicker. Already, already his stomach has soured from rejoicing to nausea. He braces a hand on the table, wrapping the other around his middle and curling in on himself. He can keep himself together, he won’t lose this precious food.

“Hey, man, take it easy, it’s ok,” the yellow one says. “You look pretty beat; we got a room ready for you if you want to rest for a while.”

“And then maybe take a bath,” Pidge mutters.

“Pidge!” Lance hisses. He smiles, bright and incandescent. “Sorry, she’s a little shit when she goes too long without space-coffee.”

“ _Rude_ ,” Pidge sniffs. “You’ve gone and revealed my true nature. I feel exposed; I’m gonna go help Coran rework the search parameters.”

She slopes out of the room and K38-701 is pinned under Lance and the yellow one’s thoughtful regard, trapped by the weight of their gaze and somehow it’s both lighter and more effective than any restraint.

“Dude, is he ok?” He hears the yellow one speak softly, can’t force himself to respond by moving or looking, even though the nausea is slowly receding he’s so _tired_ and his arms are buzzing again, the memory of the cuffs dancing along his nerve endings and paralyzing them.

He hears them, hears their concern grow deeper as he doesn’t move, doesn’t indicate that he understands even though he does, the translator is clutched so tightly in his fist that he thinks the hard black edges might be cutting into his skin but he’s not sure, can’t tell past the buzz and the burn of his memories of the cuffs. He can’t move, can’t speak, it’s all he can do to keep the food down, so of course he doesn’t resist when the hands come for him, pick him up between them and once _again_ take him away, take him away down white and blue hallways.

His dirty feet leave marks on the smooth clean floor, but the movement seems to help a little, the tingling in his arms fades and the nausea isn’t really getting better but it’s not worse and he can handle it. He even gets some of his own weight under him, starts walking (trying to), and they praise him, speak soft, kind words but he doesn’t understand _why_ until they stop to open a door and he sees the bed inside and everything slams into place with horrible, sickening certainty. This is why, _this is why_ they healed him, why they fed him, why they’re using nice words and soft hands, he should have known, he should have known, he can’t take it, not again, not this.

He screams, throwing off the lax grips they have on his arms, he won’t do it, never again, they’ll have to kill him first. They stagger back, Lance and the yellow one, shock plain on their faces as they try to placate him, did they really think they could have their way with him and he’d be _quiet_ about it? _Accept_ it? He lashes out, catching Lance across the face with his fist, kicking at the yellow one, flees on unsteady feet while they pick themselves up. A few minutes ago, he wouldn’t have thought he could move this fast, but terror and adrenaline are wonderful things, he knows this, the druids know this, these new captors should have known better than to think he was utterly helpless. He skids to the end of the hall, picks a direction at random, rounds another corner as behind him his pursuers set up a hue and cry.

A staircase opens up beside another hallway. He slows for a tick, debating – something tugs at him _down_ and he throws himself down the steps. They’re getting closer behind him, Lance and his long legs outpacing the yellow one but they’re both gaining, he may be terrified and high on adrenaline but he is still shorter and weaker. He doesn’t slow, though, following the staircase down to its base and peeling left, following the tug of warmth, hardly knowing what or why but it almost feels _safe_ and maybe he’ll find way out of this place if he follows this instinct, this pull.

Lance’s fingers snag at his back, he’s shouting breathless reassurances but he’s _lying_. He hurls the translator at Lance’s head, he doesn’t want to hear any more of these lies and if they catch him he definitely doesn’t want to understand what they’ll say afterwards. The black device hits Lance’s eye and he staggers, clapping both hands to his face with a pained howl and it’s enough to get him the space to slam through another door into a large space. He pelts across it, looking back at the door behind him more than in front of him, watching for the moment Lance bursts through in vengeant fury.

A blue glow grows to his fore, he looks for the source only to see a particle barrier hurtling towards him. He’s far to close to halt his pell-mell flight now, so he throws his arms up in a futile effort to protect his face.

But the barrier disappears before him, and he careens forward, into the waiting mouth of something huge and red and the tugging warmth inside of him grows, settles – it was leading him here all along? His legs give out from underneath him and he sprawls to an ungainly perch on the edge of the lion-ship’s mouth, and the warmth in his chest coalesces into a wash of feeling and the broad strokes of thought.

_Safe._

_Protect._

_Mine._

Lance skids to a halt a few feet distant, one hand still clapped to his eye, the other raised placatingly in front of him but falling to his side as his mouth drops open in naked shock. He speaks, but without the translator it’s meaningless babble and K38-701 doesn’t think he wants he hear it anyway. He’s caught up in the flooding connection which has opened up between him and this giant red lion-ship, awe drowning out the fear until Lance starts forward, reaching for his dangling foot. He yanks it back, scrambling up the ramp further into the lion-ship because surely whatever new this is must be better than what he just fled, and his consuming fear and desire to _get away get away_ must seep across this new connection because the lion-ship roars, lifting up its head with K38-701 inside and activating it’s particle barrier.

_Safe._

_Protect._

_MINE._

Following the lion’s prompting, K38-701 ventures further up the ramp, into what must be the cockpit. Here, he’ll be safe. Here, he can rest, just for a little while, until he’s strong enough to escape. The lion-ship will keep him for that long, won’t it? He’ll escape, later, he just needs to sleep.

Forgoing the pilot’s chair for a sloped wall under the dash, K38-701 rests his aching, tired body against the warm metal of the lion’s interior. Blanketed by steady washes of _safeprotectmine_ , he closes his eyes and finds peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Keith. Would you believe that my outline for this chapter was basically: Keith needs to eat?  
> Erm. We'll get back to his real name soon, I promise. I don't plan on keeping his prison number around for any longer than absolutely necessary.  
> Ugh. Not my favorite chapter but this monster refused to be tamed. Next up: Pidge & Haggar take a turn in the driver's seat, and that I am much more excited for.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Rises from piles of Real Life Rubble* I liiiveee!!  
> Guys, I'm a trash human being and, as you have probably deduced, unable to continue weekly updates. Lo siento. Rest assured, this fic will continue, and if I dare to put forth a prognosis, may even continue on something approaching a biweekly update schedule.  
> If you'd like, come follow me on tumblr (https://cuivienengazer.tumblr.com); previews of the next chapter go up anywhere from a few hours to two days before posting here. This fic is also crossposted to FF.net. I'm under the same username, cuivienengazer, everywhere.  
> Thank you, everyone who has subscribed, bookmarked, or commented. Your time and appreciation means the world to me.

“So the guy we found’s awake,” Pidge announces as the near-silent hiss of the hydraulic doors herald her arrival onto the bridge. “Lance and Hunk are feeding him in the kitchen.”

Coran turns from the display floating in front of him at the castle’s main control center. “Ah, Number Four! That’s good to hear, I’m glad he’s up and about. But come here, you’re just the paladin I was hoping to see. Take a look at these reports from your last data haul, it’s very interesting the way these sabotage reports are clustered in one system.”

Pidge perks up, knowing Coran had been working on their search for Matt and her dad. If he’s looking at sabotage reports now, then maybe Matt and her dad have escaped, and are wreaking havoc.

Twenty minutes later, she’s abso-fucking-sure it’s them. She’s managed to pry three incident reports on the sabotage from the Galra data they downloaded just before they found their new guest, and the damage caused has a certain flair, a certain elegance, a certain je ne sais fucking-quoi that she recognizes as particularly Holt.

“Coran, it’s them,” she announces, feeling the adrenaline hit her right in the base of her ribcage, speeding her fingers and launching her mind higher, faster, freer than any dose of space-coffee. “I’m sure of it. We’ve got to get to that system. Look, this report is only hours old, they’re still there, we’ve gotta go right now!”

“I’ll summon the paladins immediately, we’ll have a plan put together in no time,” Coran promises, and Pidge is struck by a fierce wash of gratitude to Coran. She knows she’s been pretty single-minded about finding her family, okay, she’s _kind of_ self aware, but Coran just rolls with it and she’s pretty sure she wouldn’t be holding it together this well without him. And she definitely wouldn’t have made this kind of progress if she was just searching on her own, in between regular paladin missions.

“ _SHIRO, ALLURA – HECK EVERYBODY, IT’S AN EMERGENCY!”_ Lance’s voice shrills across the castle-wide comm channel before Coran can tap into it. “ _GET TO THE HANGAR BAY, EVERYONE! STAT! ASAP! ON THE DOUBLE! ON THE TRIPLE! MOVE YOUR ASSES! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!_ ”

Pidge and Coran are already hurtling down the halls. In the background, Pidge can hear Hunk trying to calm Lance down, so it’s probably not an _emergency_ emergency, but he just carries on in increasingly less accurate military jargon until Pidge hears Allura arrive and, from the sounds of it, forcibly remove him from the comm panel.

“ _Paladins, please continue to proceed to the hangar, but there will no need for Lance’s histrionics. Matters are… under control, for the moment._ ”

Shiro arrives seconds after Pidge and Coran, and skids to a halt beside them, Allura, and Hunk and Lance. For a second, Pidge doesn’t get it. The lions are all there, Green, Yellow, and Blue all awake but still, Red- _holy shit_.

“Red’s awake?” she yelps, goggling at the activated particle barrier which does little obscure the intelligent gleam in the lion-ship’s eyes. “How – but who-” Process of elimination kicks in, and she cuts herself off. “Our rescue?”

“K38-701,” Lance supplies, rubbing at his eye.

“What’s K38-701? And who hit you?” Shiro demands, looking over Lance. He’s disheveled, sweaty and just a bit awry like he’s been running, and the beginning of a glorious black eye is blooming enthusiastically.

Lance gestures helplessly at the red lion. “Him. And him. Our rescue – that’s his prison number, or something, and I’m not sure he remembers his real name right now. And he, uh, threw his translator at me when I chased him in here.”

“ _Chased_ him?” Allura repeats. “How did this occur, exactly?”

Lance and Hunk start explaining at once, tripping over each other’s sentences.

“Well, he woke up-”

“And we got him to eat some food, but he was super tired-”

“And not talking, like, _at all_ -”

“Yeah, that’s weird, right?”

“Yeah, like, he’s got his tongue and vocal cords and stuff, right, we’ve heard him make noise-”

“Yeah, but maybe he was just too tired to talk, so we took him to a room, so he could get some rest-”

“But as soon as he saw the room he freaked out, _totalmente loco_ -”

“And he ran away so of course we chased after him-”

“And somehow he ran _straight here_ , like he knew where he was going, and then Red woke up for him and just _scooped him up_ like he was her _kitten_ or something-”

“And that’s when I caught up, and saw the particle barrier go up-”

“So of course I got on the comms to tell everyone, and… here we are,” Lance finishes in a rush.

Allura and Shiro blink, wearing identical expressions that look a lot like _what the fuck_. It’s pretty close to the faces Pidge’s parents used to make when she and Matt would do that same talking at-once-and-on-top-of-each-other.

“So,” Shiro starts slowly, “He’s in Red. Has he… _done_ anything? Besides activate the particle barrier?”

Lance shakes his head. “Nope. But he won’t take it down, either. He’s just barricaded inside.”

Great. Not only does this guy have to cope with whatever the Galra put him through, but now they’re supposed to form Voltron with him. How is that going to go any way but shitty? Like, okay, Shiro was a prisoner of the Galra too, but apart from getting a little spacey or a little twitchy once in a while, he’s fine. But this dude’s a shitshow; nonverbal, freaking out at normal things, flinching at sudden noises, let alone his reaction to someone touching him. So, conclusion number one: K38-701’s just hella less put-together mentally than Shiro (probability: like 77.6%); or conclusion number two: he’s been through a fuck-ton more than Shiro (probability: ….shit, like 82.9%). Okay, so it’s probably number two. But still. The guy’s gotta remember what normal is, right? He should be able to recognize rescue when it comes. Right?

Shit.

“Guys,” Pidge scooches her glasses up her nose. “How long do you think he’s been a prisoner? To be… the way he is. It would have to have been a while – longer than a year, at least.” The unspoken comparison to Shiro falls loud into the troubled air as they stare up at the unresponsive particle barrier. Pidge doesn’t like her next question, but it has to be put out there. “And how is this going to affect Voltron?”

“Pidge-” Lance starts, then stops, searching for the words. “He’s not in a place to be piloting anything right now.”

“Exactly,” Pidge says. “We don’t know anything about him. We don’t know how long he’s been out here, or how he got off Earth in the first place; we don’t know his name, or his history, whether he’s ever flown anything before, whether he’s been trained in any sort of combat – he’s a total wild-card.”

“Much like the Red Lion itself,” Allura says contemplatively. “The lions do not accept paladins they sense will be unworthy or incapable of reaching their full potential, nor do they select paladins who will be incompatible with the others. We must trust the Red Lion’s judgment in this, and do our best to aid K38-701 in his recovery. In the meantime, now that the Red Lion has her paladin, I believe the Black Lion will be accessible to Shiro.”

“Right,” Shiro says. “Okay, Hunk, Coran, you stay here in case K38-701 lets down Red’s particle barrier. Coran, make sure the Red Lion can’t override the hangar doors and fly out of here. Lance, Pidge, Allura, you’re with me.”

Pidge trots to catch up with Shiro as they head for the Black Lion’s hangar. “Shiro, Coran and I were running some new protocols up in the bridge, and we found reports of sabotage against the Galra in a system in the next galaxy. I was able to access some of the incident logs, and they look – it’s Matt and my dad, Shiro, I’m sure of it. It’s them, and some of the reports are only a few hours old. We’ve gotta go, it’s them and they’re probably still there.”

Shiro smiles down at her. “Of course, Pidge. I know how important your family is to you. We’ll check it out right after this – and as soon as we get our new paladin calmed down and out of his lion.”

Pidge scrunches her nose, remembering K38-701’s behavior in the short times she has observed him. “Could we settle for ‘out of his lion’?” She widens her eyes in a parody of affronted innocence at Shiro’s chastising frown. “What? I’d bet my datapad that calm is not a state of being that guy has ever experienced.”

“Be that as it may,” Shiro says drily, “I can’t justify taking the team on a mission and leaving him to run amok through the castle without us. So we need to get him-” Pidge ignores his side-eye “- _stable_ , before we go check out these reports.”

“If that’s your way of encouraging me to ‘involve myself in more social interaction with the team’, I have to hand it to you, you’ve very cleverly disguised it as blackmail,” Pidge grumbles, quoting the not-quite-advice Shiro had dispensed when he had dragged her away from her datapad for the fifth meal in a row a few days ago.

“If that’s what it takes,” Shiro’s smile is tiny, but mischievous.

They’ve arrived at the black lion’s hangar. The doors loom above the group, impassive and blank as the day their rag-tag group had arrived, disheveled and clueless about what they had just stumbled into.

“Go on,” Allura encourages softly, and Shiro takes a deep breath before approaching the closed façade.

Unlike the first time they tried this, on the day they arrived, and the second time, after they retrieved the red lion from the Galra ship, the access panel lights up under Shiro’s hand, and the massive doors slide open in the silent display of finely designed machinery that characterizes the rest of the castle and which has had Hunk drooling on more than one occasion.

The black lion is huge, gargantuan enough to dwarf even the blue and yellow lions, and powerful. Pidge can see it in every line of the majestic body, the tapered wings, the proud head pivoting smoothly to regard Shiro, the graceful bend of its spine as it lowers its ramp for its pilot. Shiro ascends slowly, jaw loose as he absorbs his burgeoning connection to his lion.

He disappears into the cockpit, and a moment later the black lion’s eyes light from within, gleaming in stern sentience. Pidge feels her bond with Green stir, granting her split-second warning before the roars of all five lions resound across the castle, vibrating deep in the bones of paladin and ship alike.

“Shit!” she squawks, slapping a hand to the wall for balance.

“ _¿Qué fu eso?_ ” echoes Lance. He glances across at Pidge. “Is Green as excited as Blue is?”

“Probably,” Pidge says drily, ignoring the impossibility of quantifying two disparate sets of emotions that don’t belong to either of the people discussing them. But he’s right, Green is excited; she’s sending purpose and fulfillment and drive across their bond, lighting Pidge’s bones with fire and _move, run, fly_.

“Voltron is complete,” Allura proclaims, joy and sorrow intermingled across her face in a mix Pidge is all too familiar with. Behind the faces of these new humans, she knows, Allura sees the ghosts of paladins ten thousand years gone, her father among them. And though they stand in the footsteps left by these predecessors, continue each day on the path laid out by them, for Allura Voltron will only ever cast the shadow of loss. How the Altean princess manages to face each day with the verve and determination she does is beyond Pidge; she _knows_ her own family is alive, and still there are some days she’s not sure getting out of bed, eating, or even climbing into her lion to fight the Galra, are worth it if none of it leads directly to getting her brother and father back.

“ _I’m gonna… take Black out for a test flight,_ ” Shiro’s voice sounds across the comms, soft and awed, joyful and _complete_ in a way Pidge has never heard from him.

Beside her, Lance scrubs at his eye with the heel of his hand. He’s open, unashamed of his emotions in a way Pidge would be uncomfortable with from herself or on anyone else, but which fits Lance better than the false machismo or bravado he dons at times.

“He sounds good,” Lance confides quietly, sending her a small smile. “Like he did before, on his flight logs.”

And of _course_ Lance has listened to Shiro’s flight logs from his Garrison days, but Pidge doesn’t call him on it because he’s right. Shiro has been manfully supportive as he sends them out on mission after mission while he’s relegated to huddling in the cockpit behind one or another of them, or piloting an unmanned drone from the bridge, but he hasn’t flown since his escape from the Galra, and Pidge recognizes how much he’s missed it as the black lion soars through space around the castle, executing brilliant maneuvers while man and ship cement their bond. Lance is right, Shiro is right at last, and Pidge will be right. As soon as she gets her family back.

* * *

“Rise,” Haggar commands, continuing her survey of the reports generated by the incompetents thus far assigned to the task of finding her vanished resource. She was reluctant to pull her brightest protégé from her own projects, but circumstances have rendered it necessary.

The druid approaches, observing the display she indicates. “The paladins have taken your experiment.”

“Find it,” Haggar commands. “I care not how you do it, nor what resources you require. The might the empire will be at your disposal.”

“My lady, I will not fail you.” Her druid bows low, the tips of her sleeves brushing the ground.

“See that you do not.”


	5. Chapter 5

He is not like Alfor.

This frightened, broken kit does not electrify the room when he enters. He does not bring calm or ease. He is not strong enough to support anyone. He does not lead, by word or example.

So says Green, so says Blue. So says Yellow, so says Black. They compare the present to the past, and they worry. Red listens to her pridemates, hears their concern and doubt, and strengthens her stance. In the shared mindspace of the aetheric plane, she bats aside the impressions the other lions have shown her of her chosen paladin, and presents what she has seen, what she has felt, and what she believes could yet be.

Yes, there is fear. Omnipresent, constant, and all but all-encompassing. But underneath, buried yet unbroken, a foundation that is fluid and strong. Yes, there is silence. The boy has never spoken, this she has seen through their bond. But walled away behind a lifetime of conditioning and trauma, his mind is bright and sharp. Yes, there is damage to mind and heart, to body and soul, and yes, there are scars which time will not heal. But Red draws upon the bond she has created with this lost and uprooted cub, showing her pridemates what their melded quintessence could be. She shows them a paladin whose love and loyalty could burn all the fiercer for having been smothered for so long; a paladin whose instincts, honed by a lifetime of survival against overwhelming odds, could be directed into a sharper weapon than any blade. A paladin who, forged in fires which would, and have, destroyed many another to less than ash, has emerged like a well-heated bar of steel, ready to be tempered and shaped to new purpose.

All this Red casts across the aetheric plane, marshalling all her fiery passion behind her chosen paladin until her pridemates, swayed by her fierce determination, bow their heads in acquiescence to her vision.

When the call to Black comes, resounding across the aetheric plane to rouse their alpha from his enforced rest, Red pulls her consciousness back to her physical form, keeping only the light, ever-present strand of connection to the shared mindspace of her pride. Together, they watch Black's paladin awaken his body, ascending into the cockpit with just the right strand of trepidation threading through his awe. Yes, he and Black are indeed a matched set, their quintessence already beginning to weave together as the bond awakens. In time, they will be meshed so completely that none will be able to come between. As it should be. As it will be for each paladin and their lion, even her own. He will take longer, but for once she is willing to wait. He is worth it, and she pours all her devotion and hope into the roar she looses with Green, Yellow, and Blue to greet their alpha. 

In the cockpit, her paladin startles awake, flooding their fledgling bond with immediate and debilitating fear. She winces, chastising herself for being so forgetful of her kit. She feels him stagger to his feet, clumsy with sleep too-soon broken. No, kit, stay – Red pushes into their bond, shoving _Safe, Safe, Safe_ and _Mine, Stay_. His consciousness, so tiny compared to hers, reels under the force of her sending. To one side, Blue chides, _gentle, slow, calm_. Red flicks her away with a scrap of annoyance – doesn’t she know how to handle her own paladin? He’s matched with _her_ quintessence, not Blue’s. Nevertheless, she grudgingly admits (to herself, not to Blue) that she might have pushed too strongly at first. This time, she narrows and focuses her sending into something closer to the shapes that human thoughts take.

_Mine._ You are mine, always.

_Yours_. I am yours, forever.

_Safe_. I will keep you safe.

It’s hard to tell how much of her intent filters through their fledgling bond, but her paladin’s steps slow, and Red counts it a victory.

_Stay_ , she sends, trying to modulate the breadth of her being to the narrow frequencies her paladin’s tiny being can handle. Stay with me. Explore our bond. Let our connection grow.

His footsteps halt, standing stiff and uncertain in the center of the cockpit. Red stills herself, leashing the fire of her anticipation and hope, and waits.

It’s slow, so agonizingly slow, and beneath the iron restraint she has imposed upon herself, Red burns to smash through this fear, this paralyzing trauma. To set his spirit ablaze and rejoice as together they soar in fiery splendor. But even without the aid of the soothing calm that Blue offers in steady, silent sympathy, Red knows her first instinct is too much, too soon for her kit. She has pushed enough; now it is hers to wait, to be open and still, inviting without expectation or pressure.

His weight shifts minutely against her. She focuses everything she has into observing, through her sensors, through their bond, as he slowly, tentatively, reaches out. He retracts and pauses several times, until she thinks she might explode from the anticipation, but each time he steels his will to try again, until finally, _finally_ , he lays a hand upon the control panel. Red waits, trembling, until she feels the barest brush against their bond, and when mind mirrors hand she brings the cockpit to life. Slowly, so slowly, careful not to startle, delicate with her kit, opening their connection in tandem with the gentle brightening of the lights and screens.

_For you_ , she sends. _For us_.

She feels his doubt. How can this be for him? How can what she has offered be genuine? _Test, trap, trick_ , flickers across their burgeoning connection. No, kit. For you, for us. You are mine, _mine_ , she sends, and cannot resist a final push. _Safe_.

He stays, and Red exults. Time slips, and her paladin remains, and Red glories. It has been so long since she had a paladin, so long since the jagged edges of her quintessence matched up against something so small and fragile and right. As he relaxes, she wraps him further in her quintessence, rejoicing in the sensation of fear gradually draining away, replaced by a wondering contentment that is entirely new and utterly bright.

Neither of them care to mark the time until a new feeling trickles across the bond. Red analyzes it, intrigued. It’s almost a hurt, but her paladin is not wounded; it’s not the heavy fatigue of his first arrival, either. What is it?

_Hunger_ , Yellow prompts gently. Her paladin needs sustenance.

She’s such a quiznacking idiot. Of course he needs to fuel his tiny little body. It’s been 10,000 years, and she has managed to forget nearly everything about the needs of biological life forms. Does he need to relieve himself? Clean his body? Drink? Sleep? She pushes gentle chastisement at him with her queries. He should have told her his needs; she expects it in future.

He doesn’t understand. Confusion seeps across their bond. She nudges him towards the thought of _food, sleep, bathe_. _Needs_ , she sends. _Fix_.

It’s not working. His confusion deepens, and fear is crawling back in. He doesn’t understand, and bad things happen when he does not follow directions.

Red keeps her frustration firmly apart from her connection to her paladin, but unfortunately this means it scorches across the aetheric plane, singeing her pridemates’ shared consciousness. They turn their attention to her, seeking the source of her distress, and Red shows them her view of the bond with her paladin through the past few minutes.

He needs the other paladins, Yellow sends. He needs his own kind.

They will help. They will teach. Black.

They are coming, Blue announces. Let them in.

Red hears the clatter of feet and voices entering the hangar. She deactivates her particle barrier and nudges her paladin towards the door. _Safe_. _Help. Needs. Fix. Safe._

He’s not safe, not with them, he’s not safe, remember, remember, _remember_ why he fled here in the first place, and Red does not fully understand the rush of memories and emotions that he pours across their bond in a flood of terror, but she understands enough to know that this particular fear is unfounded. _Safe_ , she sends. They are safe. He is safe with them.

No, he’s not, he’s not, remember, remember – _Safe_ , Red presses, letting her absolute certainty press firm and unyielding against his mind.  _You are safe here_. _Let them help._

He doesn’t want to leave her. Here, maybe, is safe. She is safe. Elsewhere? Others? It’s too much, it doesn’t make sense. It can’t be safe.

Red reaches, touching each memory of his time in the castleship. In the medbay, where he awoke from the pod. _Safe_. Lance and Pidge. _Safe_. In the kitchen, eating Hunk’s food. _Safe_. In the halls, walking to the bedroom – _yes, safe, even there_. He did not feel so, but he was. _Safe_. It’s harder, but she tries to form the concept of future, of time not-now and not-past, and she thinks he understands. _Safe_.

She opens the ramp to her cockpit, feels Blue send _slow, careful_ , to her own paladin.

_Go_ , Red nudges. _You will be safe._


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Keith is cleansed, in more ways than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CARPE FUCKING DIEM TODAY I WIN BECAUSE I'M ALIVE, BITCHES  
> tl;dr anxiety is a bitch but despite my shitty work/life balance I have not abandoned this precious child of a fic. The fact that I'm still getting comments and kudos despite nearly two months of radio silence is a testament to each and every one of you golden, lovely people. I bestow glittering adulations upon you all.

He’s not ready when Red pushes him down her ramp, he’s not ready but she doesn’t listen. She demands that he trust these new captors, insists that he is safe, has been safe, will be safe, when all he's sure of is that he was safe with her. But now she is making him abandon the singular haven he thought he had found with her, and once again everything is uncertain and full of danger.

_Go_ , Red nudges. _You will be safe_.

Whether he believes her or not, he doesn’t have a choice but to step off the ramp as she begins to retract it, raising her great head to tower majestic and remote over the group advancing upon him. They are arrayed in a ragged line, Lance then Hunk then Pidge then a tall, broad man in dark clothes and dark hair with a shock of white dipping down nearly to his scarred nose. This one is the first to step forward, and even though he’s smiling it doesn’t look threatening, doesn’t ball cold dread in the pit of his stomach.

“Hey there,” he says, and K38-701 understands, even though he hears the difference in this new man’s words to what he has heard all his life. Red sends the understanding that this is through their bond, and he feels a small piece of certainty click into place. This will not be taken from him; this he cannot drop or throw or lose. Whatever comes next, he will at least understand the words he hears.

The tall man is still talking, and he sharpens his focus to catch everything, every word, every expression and movement, so that when they turn on him he will not be surprised.

“I’m Shiro,” he’s saying. “This is Pidge, and Hunk, and Lance. We’re the other paladins of Voltron, and we’re glad to have you on board. Do you remember your name?”

Ah, this again. He turns, baring his neck again to show his designation. When he pivots back, Shiro’s face is still, set hard to conceal what churns beneath, and here comes the dread his smile allayed before, because people only set their faces like that when whatever they are hiding is bad, he’s bad, he’s going to be punished, he doesn’t even know what he did, how can he keep from doing it again when he doesn’t know what he did?

_Calm, still, peace_ , Red sends, and only when her warmth blankets him does he realize he was shivering.

“It’s okay,” Shiro says soothingly. His eyes and mouth are still tight, like he’s holding anger inside, but he’s not acting on it, he’s just standing there, still and out of arm’s reach, watching without demanding pain or tests or _anything_ and it’s strange, so strange. What does he _want_?

“You were in there a while,” Shiro continues, still so calm. “Were you able to get some rest? Lance and Hunk thought you looked pretty tired, before.”

Before they _chased him, took him, tried to_ – Red stops his spiral with a firm wall of heat. _You are safe, my kit._ He doesn’t know whether he can believe her, yet, so he focuses on the question. Did he rest?

He nods, sharp and jerky, once up and down the way he’s been taught. Yes, no, up, down, designation, go, come, do, don’t. These are familiar ground, and another tiny piece of stability clicks into place. These are constants; these he understands, these he can follow.

“That’s good,” Shiro says. He talks _so much_ , and all of it is directed at him, so he has to listen, pay attention, he’s not used to this much interaction. But Shiro said he was _good_ , and his eyes loosen and crinkle a little as he smiles, and _again_ it’s a smile that doesn’t promise pain and K38-701 is not sure what to do with this kind of face. A little warmth blooms in his chest, and it’s all his, not Red’s (whose presence still blankets him, keeping the cold at bay). He wants, he thinks, to make Shiro smile like that again.

“It’s almost lunchtime,” Lance puts in. “If you’re feeling up to it, we could all go get something to eat?” Now _he’s_ smiling too, open and wide, and maybe this is what that face should be used for, not to show him that something much worse is about to happen. But what does he mean? K38-701 parses the sentence in his head, studying the string of words. _If you’re feeling up to it_. Is he capable? Ready? It’s not usually taken into consideration. Why is he being asked now? But yes, he thinks he could walk to the place they fed him before. _We could all go get something to eat._ Why would they eat at the same time as they feed him? And why would they feed him so soon? It’s strange, but so is everything else these people do. And Pidge and Lance were there last time Hunk fed him. So perhaps it’s their custom?

Ah. They are all waiting for him to answer _stupid, stupid, he took too long_. He nods again, makes sure it is precise and sharp so at least they cannot punish him for sloppiness even if they do for taking too long to think.

“Great!” Lance cheers. He pumps his fists into the air, spins around on one heel, leaning over to drape an arm around Pidge. “I’m _starving_ , let’s go eat!”

Pidge eyes him with long-suffering forbearance. “You’re approaching your touching limit for the day, Lance.”

“Aw, Pidgey, you _do_ care,” Lance coos delightedly, squirming up closer to her side. They parade out of the hangar, turning into the hall in tandem.

“C’mon,” Shiro says. He’s smiling _again_ , why is it so _nice_? He beckons as he shifts away, and K38-701 falls into step behind him, keeping an eye on the way Hunk fidgets before following behind them both. Perhaps he’s acting as rear guard, since they haven’t restrained him in any way.

The halls stretch around them, white and teal and clean and so opposite to everything he has ever known. These people, too, are utterly strange and entirely outside his realm of experience. They don’t hit or prod or break or burn; they don’t command, they are careful when they touch. They haven’t tested him once, not real tests, they haven’t talked about what Haggar was readying him for, they don’t even seem interested in what she has been working to create within him. They fed him without testing him first, and they’re going to feed him again, and still there have been no tests. They put clothes on him and they haven’t taken them away even though he has done many, many things that would have gotten him punished since he woke up here. He has been slow to obey, he has fled, he has expressed hesitation, displeasure, fear, fear, _fear_. And yet they were not angry when he fled to Red, or when he connected to her without permission, or when he remained in her cockpit for vargas despite Lance’s pleas to come out and talk. Everything they do is strange, everything they say is new, and none of it is what he’s used to, none of it makes sense, but most of it hasn’t been… bad?

“We’re here,” Shiro’s voice breaks through the roiling maelstrom of his thoughts, and K38-701 flinches back to full cognizance of his surroundings. They’ve arrived at the eating room again, and again he is led to a chair, again he sits freely and unrestrained, and again they put food in front of him and allow him to eat. There is a whole plate just for him, and everyone else has one of their own, and after watching carefully for a moment he decides that yes, they expect him to do as they are doing and that he is allowed to start eating.

He’s prepared, he thinks, for the burst of flavor, but it is still too much and not enough, at once repulsive and alluring. He eats slowly, trying to get used to it. Around him the paladins chatter, words flowing swift and bright in currents of easy familiarity. Their interactions are strange. They don’t seem to seek anything from each other beyond attention. Lance sits sandwiched between Pidge and Hunk, alternately teasing Pidge and draping himself around and sometimes atop Hunk. Shiro sits across the table, next to K38-701 but not too close, steady and measured in his movements, his hands in plain sight at all times, even as he moderates the boisterous discussion the other three toss back and forth.

“So… K38-701,” Shiro’s stumble over his designation shatters his introspection. “Now that we’ve all eaten, Lance and I will take you to the showers, and you can get cleaned up while Pidge and Hunk make you up a room. We need to talk about you and Red, and what you want to do going forward, but we have some time for you to rest up first. We’re in a pretty deserted sector right now, so just focus on recovery and we’ll deal with whatever comes next together.”

K38-701 doesn’t understand most of what he just said, but he has figured out by now that they want him to agree to whatever they do to him next. It has been a while since one of his keepers desired a facade of cooperation, but he remembers how, and he remembers that this kind of keeper, when the front inevitably crumbles, is the most vicious in their disappointment. So. This is what it is to be; he can only hope to prolong the period of relative comfort for as long as possible, before the falsity of his cooperation eventually wears through its thin veneer of complacence to expose the fiery rebellion at his core. He nods to Shiro's proposal, and stands without prompting when Shiro rises first, and follows without direction when he and Lance lead the way out of the eating room and down the hall. 

They take him to a room of hard floors and hard walls, smelling a little of clear water and faintly of soap. Cubicles jut from one wall, automated doors of frosted glass obscuring each entrance. He avoids the recriminating gaze of the mirror, ashamed of his impurity in contrast to the stark cleanliness of his surroundings. The door to the nearest stall slides open as they approach. K38-701 takes in the gleaming nozzle set into a small niche on one wall, the inset shelves containing several bottles labeled in an alien script on the other, and worries. He just ate, are they going to make him drink whatever is in those bottles? It's not quintessence, he would feel it, but it could be any number of toxins or poisons that they want to test his reaction to. And what is going to come out of that device on the other wall?

"There are towels and washcloths there," Shiro says, pointing to more inset shelves on the wall opposite the cubby. "We'll wait for you so we can show you the way to your room afterwards."

"This one is body soap," Lance says, bounding into the cubby to brandish one of the bottles. "And this one is shampoo, and this one conditioner. I've got some face creams you can use afterwards if you want." He runs a critical eye up and down K38-701. "My clothes are probably the closest we've got to fitting you, so I'll bring you some clean stuff until we can get to a space mall and get you some of your own. Oh, and the shower turns on and off with this button on the side." He leans over to demonstrate, sending a steady stream of water pattering onto the opposite wall. 

K38-701 flinches, remembering vicious hosings and forcible submersions when his keepers decided he needed to be cleaned. But no one is touching him, no one pushes him under the spray. Lance has stepped out of the shower cubicle, watching him with something foreign and soft flickering in his gaze; and Shiro looks between him and the water with pained understanding. 

“Take your time,” he says. “No one’s going to make you do anything.”

He slips out, Lance in tow, and K38-701 is truly alone for the first time since his awakening from the cryopod. The water hushes softly in the stall, sending tiny tendrils of steam whispering across his skin. He looks at his hands, his feet, the grime and filth encrusted deep into his flesh, lifts a lock of his hair and wonders if it could ever look as soft as Shiro’s, if his hands could ever look as clean as Lance’s.

_No one’s going to make you do anything._

What a beautiful lie. The day he dares believe it is the day he will break.

This water is not cold, it is not barreling forth with bruising force, it will not pursue him if he flees. Nerving himself, he strips and steps in, hunched against the onslaught of memories. This is different, this is different, it is his choice – he steps out again, just to reassure himself that he can. Water beads upon his skin, warm and soft. He watches a droplet on his arm slide downwards, collecting dirt and grime on its winding path. What splatters across the tiled floor is murky and dark with the residue of his captivity. He needs this. He needs to see more of his past wash away, watch it sluice off of him in vasty sheets so he can discover what, if anything, is buried beneath. When he reenters the shower, he takes a cloth and seizes one of the bottles of soaps – he has already forgotten which is which – and upends it blindly across himself until the stream of soap peters out. Then he scrubs until the water no longer drains away dark with filth, and the map of failures written across his flesh is clear. And when he exits the cubicle he faces the mirror, looking for what Red claims is in his heart, what she insists smolders under the ashy desolation of his history.

This, then, is what remains; a framework of knotty skin stretched over jutting bone, ice-pale rimed with traceries of pain in purer shades. Black hair, gnarled in thick locks over sharp shoulders and down the length of his knobby spine. Pointed features and brows like drawn blades frame the colors of his home, trapped in his eyes. He hates them. Hates what they represent, hates that they are a manifestation of the only part of him that has ever been valuable, planted and nurtured with loving fascination by Haggar while the rest of him was left to the tender mercies of her underlings.

“Buddy, you okay in there?” Shiro knocks on the door. K38-701 startles, knocking his elbow against the frosted door of the shower cubicle. The glass rattles in its track, echoing dully against tile walls and floor.

“That does not sound okay!” Lance charges in, only to slap a hand across his eyes. “Dude! Have you never heard of towels? Here, I brought the clothes, put ‘em on, quick.”

Shiro rolls his eyes and takes the wadded up ball of fabric from Lance’s outstretched hand which wavers in K38-701’s general direction. He turns the shirt right side out and sniffs it suspiciously. “Lance…”

“They’re clean, I swear! Remember you made us have a laundry day last week? I just haven’t folded yet.”

“Lance…” Shiro says helplessly, and K38-701 can’t decide if he’s confused, distressed, tired, or some combination of all three. But he hands the clothes to K38-701, mostly so he can pinch the bridge of his nose.

“What?” Lance defends. “We’ve been kind of busy!”

“I guess I can’t argue with that,” Shiro says resignedly. He glances at K38-701. “Ready to go, bud? We’ve got a room ready for you.”

It’s almost like they expect him to respond, but he knows better, he _knows_ that speech is not for him so he nods, sharply once up and down, even while it _hurts,_ deep in the tiny core of him which has never given up, that he takes comfort in the routine of obedience.

Shiro’s eyes tighten as the silence stretches, but before K38-701 can figure out what he’s done wrong this time, he nods in return and beckons him to follow. The room Shiro leads him to is not far from the showers. The door slides open at a pass of Shiro’s hand across the oblong mechanism on the wall, and he follows Shiro inside. The room is furnished with comforts he has only ever earned when he has been very good, very successful in Haggar’s tests, or both. A bed, set into one wall, piled with blankets and pillows, several of each. Lights, in soft teal strips, and a panel gifting to him control over their lumens. A chair and a desk in one corner, shelves set into the wall, and another doorway which Shiro opens to reveal a small washroom and toilet.

“It’s not much,” Shiro fills the silence, “but it’s yours, for as long as you’re with us.”

“We’ll get you some clothes and stuff,” Lance picks up, wandering across the room to brush invisible dust off one of the shelves. “And sometimes we get souvenirs from planets we visit, or missions or something. It kinda helps make the space your own, you know?”

This cannot be real. Not for him. It must be a trick, a lie, a test, a trap – he should play it out, find the lesson Haggar has surely implanted here somewhere, but he is _weak_ and _afraid_ and he cannot continue this charade for a moment longer. His body and his mind have been broken, then reformed only to be broken again, and he has survived, and will again. But his soul, tiny and scarred and mangled though it is, has never bent to Haggar’s mastery.

But this? Oh, _this_ could shatter him.

He doesn’t realize that he is backing up until the doorway catches in his peripherals, but he does not retract his act of defiance, his rejection of the luxuries offered in what he must believe would become just another prison. If they come a step closer, either of them, he will run. He will run to Red and beg her to take him back to Haggar, because anything, _anything_ is better than this phantasm of comfort and safety and hope.

“It’s a lot, isn’t it,” Shiro observes softly. He does not approach, but remains in the room. The open doorway between them is a barrier as insubstantial as spider’s silk. “It’s a lot,” he repeats, “to wrap your mind around. We’re asking for your trust, and I know how hard that can be.”

Does he? Does he really? His words, like his offer of blankets and lights and toilet, are lies. Lies. Denied the words to throw his disbelief in the other’s face, K38-701 uses his face to express his hostility. He will not be taken in by _sympathy_ , by soft words and kind eyes.

Shiro merely watches him, passive yet unyielding. “Lance,” he says calmly, “would you go round up the others and ask them to meet us in the lounge? I think it’s time to debrief our new paladin on Voltron.”

“Sure thing, Shiro,” the teen says. He edges out of the room and down the hall, leaving K38-701 and Shiro to their staredown.

Shiro is the first to break it, sinking cross-legged to the floor with a small sigh. Relaxed, open, he looks up at K38-701. “You were with the Galra for a long time, weren’t you?”

He doesn’t know how to handle this. Shiro towers over him, is easily twice as broad, clearly the leader of the paladins, but there he sits, limbs tangled and vulnerable on the floor, while K38-701 stands over him.

He could run. He could attack.

He does neither. Instead, he nods, slow and unsure. If a long time means always, then yes. He has been with the Galra for a long time.

“I was only their prisoner for a year – a decaphoeb,” Shiro corrects himself. “But sometimes I still- I’ll get up, in the night, sometimes. And open my door. Walk through as many as I can find. To remind myself that I can.”

His gaze has grown a little distant, but after a moment he refocuses on K38-701. “I won’t pretend to know what you’ve been through. You’ve survived more than anyone should have to. But I understand, a little, what it’s like to try to find your own path when every choice has been taken from you for so long. I’m asking a lot of you, looking for your trust. I’d like to earn it, though, if you’ll give me the chance.”

What will they do if he denies Shiro’s request? Give him back to Haggar?

But what will they do if he opts to stay, to let this _trust_ grow? How long will this interlude of kindness last? And if he chose this, chose to cling to these strange and soft people, could he survive the return to his former life? Already he is not sure he could face his keepers again. More time here will only make his return worse. Haggar must be searching for him; the longer he hides, the longer he makes her wait, the worse her wrath will be.

He doesn’t want to go back. He wants to stay. But when has what he wants ever mattered?

K38-701 touches the hem of one of the sleeves on the shirt Lance brought for him, feels the soft material brushing at his knuckles and puddling around his ankles. These people give and give and _give_ , and not once have they taken, not once, not anything. They ask where he expects orders. They keep their distance where he expects abuse. Where he expects degradation, they clothe him. Where he expects starvation, they feed him. And now, where he expects bars, locks, chains, they offer – what? _Freedom_?

_No one’s going to make you do anything_.

Shiro’s words have lodged in his heart, embedding themselves beyond hope of extraction. Red’s quintessence has bonded to his own, twining their disparate selves into a seamless whole. Even now, he feels her like a bank of embers at his back, protection and warmth bolstering his core in unconditional support.

Shiro watches him, patient and unwavering even as the silence between them stretches its hungry maw. He cannot break it, not yet, but he nods. It is tiny, jerky, barely a twitch, but the smile that Shiro bestows on him is like the dawn; swift, expansive, and so, so bright.

“Thank you,” the black paladin says softly. He clambers to his feet and steps into the hall, glancing in the direction Lance went earlier before looking back to bestow another smile on K38-701. “Why don’t we start by telling you about Red, and the rest of Voltron?”

The nod comes quicker and easier this time. As he follows Shiro down the hall, K38-701 glances back at the room, watches the door close, and thinks that perhaps he will do as Shiro does, and go through it, later, just to remind himself that he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I squee on [tumblr](https://cuivienengazer.tumblr.com) on occasion. You can poke at me or request a square for my [bad things happen bingo card](https://cuivienengazer.tumblr.com/post/175677693751/here-is-your-card-for-bad-things-happen-bingo), which I'll start putting up on here when I have the next prompt done.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is that *squints*... an U P D A T E? Nah, can't be, not from ME

Lance and Hunk and Pidge are all in the lounge when K38-701 and Shiro arrive, along with two other people who introduce themselves as Allura and Coran. K38-701 joins them on the sunken couches after Shiro pats the space next to him with another of those encouraging smiles, and holds himself in readiness for whatever they’ve planned next.

“Right, let’s get you up to speed,” Shiro says. “You’ve seen the blue lion, when you were rescued. Lance pilots her.”

“You know it,” Lance says cheekily, shooting him a pair of finger guns.

“And you’ve obviously met the red lion,” Shiro continues over him. “The bond that you and she have is one that each paladin of Voltron experiences with their lion. Pidge pilots the green lion, Hunk the yellow lion, and I pilot the black lion. Together, all five lions and their pilots come together to form Voltron. Does that make sense so far?”

No. Not even a little. Maybe? So they each – some of them, anyway, not Allura and Coran, apparently, have a bond to a lion like his with Red? But this Vol-tron that Shiro mentioned makes no sense. The lions come together? What does that even _mean_?

“It’s… kind of confusing for us, too,” Shiro says awkwardly, picking up on K38-701’s bewilderment. “We haven’t managed the whole Voltron thing yet, actually, what with needing a full set of paladins and all.”

Oh, now this makes even less sense. Lions and ships and paladins, why is he here? Why did they have to take him and make him part of this upside-down, backwards life?

“If I may,” Allura interjects delicately. She leans forward slightly, eyes alight with purpose and passion. “Voltron was created by my father King Alfor, to be the defender of the universe. Voltron, and its paladins, are the front line against threats great and small to the wellbeing and freedom of all space, known and unknown. Currently, of course, the greatest threat to the universe is Zarkon and the rest of the Galra empire. Our war efforts in that regard have been necessarily limited up to this point, given the lack of paladins, but now that-”

She keeps talking, but he can’t hear any of it, it’s all blocked behind the wall of ice slamming into his lungs, freezing his breath and locking his limbs in place.

They are fighting the Galra.

_Fighting_ the _Galra_.

That can’t – it doesn’t – no one can –

He shudders, fighting against visceral memories which wrack through him with punishing clarity. Distantly, he senses someone kneeling in front of him, and feels himself lock up even further. He can’t – he can’t go back to that place in his mind where memories supersede reality. He needs to be present, to be ready, he doesn’t know what’s coming next, he can’t, he _can’t_ , he needs to be aware of the here and now, he needs to be ready, he doesn’t know what they’ll do next.

Someone puts a delicate hand on his knee, just tapered fingertips lightly making their presence known, but he still flinches, and hates himself a little more for it. But it’s enough to ground him, pull him up out of his head and back to the present. The white-haired woman, Allura, kneels in front of him, her hand removed from his knee but hovering uncertainly between them. When his eyes find it, she seems to notice her aborted gesture and returns it to her lap with a flicker of self-consciousness masked so quickly he’s not even sure he saw it.

“Take a moment,” she instructs gently. Her words are steel sheathed in silk, her tone gentle iron offering support rather than piercing through him for his rude interruption of her explanation. “It’s quite alright, K38-701. You are safe, and there are none here who will harm you.”

_Lies, lies_ , hisses a corner of his mind.

_Truth, truth_ , another whispers.

“I see that the thought of opposing the Galra is upsetting to you,” Allura continues. “It’s quite natural, I assure you. You have been treated abominably at their hands, and none of us will fault you or shame you should you wish never to see or interact with them again. There are planets in the Voltron Coalition who have offered to take in people affected by the Galra and in need of refuge. Should you wish it, we will take you to one of those planets and leave you in their very capable hands. You would be well taken care of for as long as you needed or wished.” She glances around the room, prompting his gaze to follow hers across the other paladins. “However, there is the matter of your bond with the red lion. Voltron needs five paladins in order to have true hope of defeating the Galra for good, and though we desire nothing more for you than true and full recovery at your own pace and in your own time, we cannot wait for you if that recovery takes place on one of the planets I mentioned. In that event, we would ask that you and the red lion surrender your bond with each other, and allow us to continue the search for another viable red paladin.”

She’s looking at him again, jewel-bright eyes searching his own for something he doesn’t know if she’ll ever find. “Please take some time to consider your situation and your needs. Feel free to move about the castle as you wish, and certainly visit the red lion and consult with her. I would ask that you make a decision on whether you will stay with us as the red paladin, or whether you will retire yourself and take refuge with the Coalition. In the meantime, any of us will be happy to assist you with anything you need.”

The other paladins make various noises affirming Allura’s offer. She stands, and it seems to be some sort of signal, for the rest begin to rise and make their way out of the lounge, breaking into smaller conversations or off on errands of their own. Pidge is walking backwards in front of Shiro, words spilling quick and earnest about signals and triangulation and someone called Dad and another someone called Matt. Lance and Hunk are paired as well, muttering conspiratorially about garlic knots, and Allura and Coran have already left, tossing something about a bridge over a shoulder to Shiro, who nods distractedly, consumed by fending of Pidge’s rapid torrent of information.

K38-701 brings his feet up onto the couch and scoots into the corner. He sets his chin on his knees, and thinks. They fight, these people. This Voltron, these paladins. They are soft, with him, soft and permissive and kind, but they fight against the Galra. Can he - could he - he starts to shy away from the thought, but a flicker of warmth not entirely his own stays his instinctive mental flinch. Could he... fight? He turns the thought over, examining it from all angles. Could he fight the Galra? Could he join these paladins and their lions - could he join _Red_ \- in their war?

She pushes a wall of warmth over him at the thought. At this distance she cannot shape their bond into words his mind can parse, but her love is a constant fire, banked low and comforting in his heart. He presses his forehead against his knees, clutching his arms tightly around his legs. It’s always been within him, hidden, beaten down or forced into submission, but ever ready to flare up again - disobedience, a willful sense of self that refuses to die no matter the torments inflicted upon him, a smoldering capacity for anger. Here, now, he has been given the opportunity to let that part of himself loose, to take back a small measure of what has been denied him all his life.

He wants.

He _wants_ , and lets himself want. It’s slow, and hard to loosen his iron grip on the door behind which he has shoved every scrap of desire until now, but here, in the quiet and stillness of the lounge, it doesn’t feel so dangerous to hope. It’s unformed, nebulous and timid, but he pushes at it, prods it and pokes at it to force it to take shape. What does he want?

He wants… this. He wants Red, her bond with him and all the misty possibilities he senses she longs for. He wants these people, Shiro and Lance and Pidge and Hunk and Allura and Coran, to continue treating him the way they have since they took him – rescued him? – from Haggar.

_Haggar_.

The very thought of her clenches his hands into fists around the loose material of his pants. He can’t – he can’t fight her. He’s weak, weak, not good enough, not enough in any way.

Red pushes her acceptance over him, hot and fiercely opposed to his doubts. She chose him, above anyone else, and he is enough for her. Together, they can become more. He can be more, anything, everything. Her belief in him is an inferno, a challenge, a promise, and it’s more than he can manage, to accept her perspective of him. That’s not him. That strength, that hope, that’s not him. But maybe, if – if she’ll let him, if the paladins will let him stay, maybe someday he can be something close to that.

He pushes himself to his feet and heads for the door. He needs to find the others, tell them – tell them how? He can’t speak, he can’t shape the words they use. Speech is not for him. That’s… true. Isn’t it? It’s certainly familiar. But everything else he thought he knew has been turned on its’ head; perhaps this, too, will prove to be false.

He remembers the way they took, from the room they gave him, to the lounge. From the room, to the showers. From the showers, to the kitchen. From the kitchen, to the place where he woke up, or to Red’s hangar. He’s retracing his steps, looking for this ‘bridge’ Allura mentioned, when Lance crosses a hallway ahead of him and pauses at the sight of K38-701.

“Oh, hey, buddy! I was going to the bridge for a briefing, wanna tag along?”

_Bridge_ , he said bridge. K38-701 nods and follows Lance to a large room fronted by enormous windows out into the vastness of space. It’s so _huge_ , and he’s seen it before, on different ships, but it still makes him feel small and unworthy so he hangs back near the door while Shiro and Allura outline a plan to find the someones Pidge calls Dad and Matt. So this is what they do – just like they found him, took him, they find other people and take them. But take them in a good way, take them from places of hurt and pain and bring them to this place of food and warmth and light. He thinks, as he listens to the paladins plan a rescue, that he would like to give to someone else what’s been given to him. This new feeling, this safety, this hope, is precious, and should be shared.


End file.
